Page 17 of The Break-Up Pact

And now the blush from before is right back. I play the same game everyone else does when they post on Instagram—wondering who will scroll past it, what they’ll think of me when they see it—but Levi was never in my imaginary audience. The idea is both thrilling and mortifying.

“Lightly nibbled by a few, maybe,” I say, trying not to sound self-conscious.

“Never a dull moment,” says Levi. And then, after a beat: “I still have nightmares about whatever that cave diving thing is that you did.”

Honestly, so do I. But it wouldn’t have been the first time I did something that terrified me out of my gourd on our travels, and it was far from the last. Griffin had a way of wheedling me into just about anything, and I apparently had a chronic case of “being the cool girlfriend” that let him get away with it.

“Griffin had it on his bucket list,” I say.

Levi’s voice is noticeably tighter when he asks, “Have you heard from him?”

“Nah.” I’m actually surprised. I was getting two to three Are you doing okay? texts a week right up until Levi and I broke the internet. I can’t say I miss them. “Have you heard from Kelly?”

“We talked on the phone for a little while,” he says, glancing out the window.

“Good,” I say, and when the word comes out too bright, I add, “I’m glad.”

Levi just nods and doesn’t offer anything else, so I don’t press. I figure their conversation must have been heading in the direction he wants it to, though, or we wouldn’t be going on this fake date.

The Benson Beach Museum of Arts is one of the newer buildings in our small town, white with modern, clean-cut lines and an interior with tall ceilings and gleaming floors. There are four parts to it: a section chronicling Benson Beach’s history, another full of pieces from a mix of local artists and artists from around the country, a flashy interactive section where you can play with the art, and a small venue in the back with gorgeous open light streaming in through the windows.

We’re actually here on two missions today—both to re-break the internet for our personal gain and to scout this out as a potential “in case of rain” venue, since the wedding will be on the beach. Annie had it on her short list, and between the historical aspect and the giant ball pit in the interactive section, it has Mateo and Dylan written all over it. When it’s clear we’ve beaten Sana here, we decide to walk around the venue space first.

Levi’s the one who calls it right off: “It’s great, but it’s way too small.”

I nod in agreement. Given all our friends in Benson Beach, their coworkers at the university, and the extended Díaz family coming in from Texas, we should probably start with a stadium and work our way down from there.

“Let’s go get cultured while we wait for Sana,” I suggest, walking back toward the gallery.

We stop first at a painting of what appears to be a cartoon waffle, orange juice, fried egg, and bacon that have all sprouted legs and are holding hands while running in a circle. Levi stifles a laugh.

“What, may I ask, is so funny about this charming breakfast cult?”

Levi rubs the back of his neck, looking at the painting sheepishly. “There’s this guy at work. Whenever our boss drags us out to art galleries, he plays this game where you imagine you’re coming back to someone’s place after a date, and if you would—” Levi’s lip twitches into the beginning of a smirk. “If you’d sleep with them if they had this over their bed. He called it the Gallery Game.”

I don’t hesitate. “Oh, hard yes on this one. This is someone who makes pancakes in the morning. Probably puts funny whipped cream faces and M&M’s on them, too.”

“Are the pancakes worth it, though, if the demon they’re summoning in this painting joins you?” Levi muses.

I let out a sharp laugh. “Fair point. Okay, who’s next.”

We move on to another painting in the same series, this one of a bunch of carrots beaming right at us, their carotene eyes wide and their teeth bared.

“Absolutely not,” says Levi at once.

I nod in my best imitation of a discerning art critic. “Explain your reasoning.”

“Why are they smiling like that? What do carrots have to smile about? They’re plotting something.”

“Get behind me,” I say. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Levi lets out an amused breath as I step in front of him, lifting my hands at my sides like I’m poised to brawl.

“All right, Rocky, save it for the angry potatoes in the next painting,” says Levi, leaning in and pressing warm hands to my bare shoulders, pulling me back toward him. My back grazes his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft against my arms.

I glance at him and catch the mirth in his eyes. The mischief. It makes me forget that I’m wearing this too-stiff dress, that we’re out on a strangely high-stakes mission, or that Sana is taking her sweet, sweet time getting here. We move down the line of paintings, pivoting from the anthropomorphic perishables that will no doubt haunt our dreams to a line of moodier, darker paintings, all abstract navy blues and maroons punctured by the occasional sickly yellow. Like if someone took a city skyline on a dreary night and shook the colors out.

“Hmm,” says Levi, stepping back and considering.

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